The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  The Marshal’s face tightened, and the Kuakgan frowned.

  “That one,” said the Marshal. “Her. Well, it might be so. That was her agent near here. Yes, and her doing with the other moneychanger, as I recall. Well. If she’s active again . . .”

  “Is she ever inactive?” asked the Kuakgan. “And would anything please her better than trouble between friends?”

  “You’re right,” said the Marshal. “Gird’s cudgel, this will be a mess if that happens.” He looked at Paks. “Well, if you’ve been with the rangers, I expect you’ve learned some archery.”

  “Yes.” Paks wondered if he would ask her to demonstrate, but he shook his head, and got up.

  “I have drill, as I said, and must get ready. If you change your mind, Paksenarrion, you’ll be welcome.” He waved as he went out.

  The Kuakgan raised his mug in salute. “I told you once the Marshal would surprise you. You have come far, Paksenarrion, since last spring.”

  “Yes.” She looked into her own mug, drained it, and refilled it.

  “Yes, but? Not all the way, eh?” She did not answer, but shook her head briefly. “Does it bother you so much, now?” he went on.

  “No. Not really. I wish for it, but I can do without it.” She traced a design on the table with one finger. “I wonder, though, what would happen in serious trouble—”

  “You don’t consider a daskdraudigs serious?”

  Paks looked up, startled. “You knew about that?”

  “Mother of Trees, did you think I’d send you off like that and not pay attention? Yes, I know about it. I know you didn’t kill it yourself, and I know you did face danger steadily.” He paused to drain his own mug. “Ah . . . here comes the food.” Neither of them spoke while a serving girl laid the trays on their table: roast meat, gravy, mushrooms, bread, and cheese. A dish of onions, and one of redroots, and one of stewed pears. Finally she left, taking the empty jug, and promising to bring another. “I know you didn’t panic, Paksenarrion, when you might have. And they tell me you were able to sense the daskdraudigs before anyone else.”

  “Yes.” Paks was piling meat on a slab of bread. “I was still frightened, you know. But I kept thinking of what you’d said, and then what I’d been taught of fighting—this arm here, and that step there—and I was able to keep on.” She bit into the food. “I threw up afterwards,” she said around a mouthful of bread and meat. “The first time, at least.”

  “Yes. But you were able to keep on. Good.” They ate in silence awhile. Paks was just about to say something, when Sevri came to the table. She had grown even more over the summer.

  “Paks? Dad says you aren’t staying with us—I could’ve found room—you could’ve slept with me.”

  “Sevri. Are you tired of everyone saying how you’ve grown? Are you still working mostly in the stable?”

  “No, and yes. I do some in the inn, too, but I like the stable work better.” She had the same friendly smile as before. “Are you all right, Paks? You look different without your sword.”

  “I’m fine. When did they start telling everyone not to wear a sword?”

  “Over the summer. It’s helped a little, with the caravaners. We’ve had fewer fights.” She glanced at the Kuakgan. “I’m sorry, Master Oakhallow, that I didn’t greet you—”

  “No matter.”

  “Do you still have the black horse, Paks? Or did you get another?”

  “I’m traveling on foot right now,” said Paks carefully. “I left Socks in Fin Panir—they said they’d keep him until I came for him.”

  She could see the thoughts passing through Sevri’s eyes, but Sevri finally said, “I hope he’s all right. I remember how scared I was of him at first, and by the time you left I could feed him from my hand.” She looked at Paks’s clothes curiously. “Are you a ranger now? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I spent the summer as a ranger. Now I’m going to see Duke Phelan.” Paks tried to think of something comforting to say, and couldn’t. Sevri sat in silence a moment, and then got up.

  “I’d better get back to work. We’re feeding one of the caravans, too, and they’ll be sending in for it any minute.” She started away, then turned back for a moment. “I’m glad you’re here, Paks. I hope you come back.”

  “Sevri’s talked of joining the grange,” said Master Oakhallow. “She’s said she would like to be like you.”

  Paks shivered. “She shouldn’t. She’s too—”

  “She’s tougher than you think. She’d make a good fighter—in some ways like you—though I think she shouldn’t plan to make her living at it. But if trouble comes here—she could fight, I think, and well.”

  Though it was nearly dark when they left the inn, the streets were just as crowded. Paks felt sleepy and full: the meal she’d eaten, on top of the long day’s march, had her longing for a bed—any bed. But the Kuakgan, when they came to his house, laid a fire and lit it. He seemed wide awake and ready for a long talk.

  “The seed you brought me is indeed rare,” he said. “I have no arissa in the grove, and I am glad to have the chance to sprout one. Did you see it in bloom?”

  “Yes.” Paks yawned. “Like—like great lights, high in the forest. Not the sort of flowers most trees have.”

  “Tell me something of the forest you traveled.” Paks wanted to sleep; she yawned again, but began to talk of her summer’s work, remembering as best she could the trees, flowers, vines, birds, and animals. The Kuakgan interrupted now and then with questions. Then he asked about the daskdraudigs.

  “It felt—bad. Sick.” Paks felt itchy talking about it. “I felt it, inside my head—I fell down, at first.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I could tell which direction. Not very well.” She described the search for the daskdraudigs, and the fight when it was found. She was wide awake again. The Kuakgan sat crosslegged in front of the fire, staring into it as she talked. When she was done, he turned to her.

  “Paksenarrion, do you have yet any hope of being made a paladin?”

  Paks stopped short. “I—haven’t thought of it.” That was not quite true, for the rangers had prodded her to acknowledge and use her gifts. She could not quite believe their hints; she could not wholly disbelieve, when she looked at Ansuli, obviously healed and free of pain. She thought of it then, thought of the dream she had had, of the pain when it died. Had it died? Once, yes, and then it had sprouted again, as a dead seed revives in spring. But was it the same dream, or another?

  “You said you considered yourself once more a warrior. A warrior for what, or with whom?”

  “I—” She stopped. “I have to say? Yes. A warrior for—for good.”

  “Still that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means a paladin, to you? Or a knight of Gird, or Falk, or Camwyn or some such?”

  “It means—just what I said. To fight, but only for what I think is good.”

  “What you think is good? Not at the direction of others?”

  Paks thought hard. “Well—no. Not really. Not any more. But if the gods—if I knew that the gods said—”

  “Ah. But no man or woman.”

  “No.” As she said it, she felt herself cut off from all the warriors she’d known—for she was forswearing allegiance to any lord, any captain, any king, even. Could she consider herself in the fellowship of Gird, if she would not take the orders of the Marshal-General? She shivered a little. Did she mean it? Yes.

  He sat back, as if satisfied, and turned again to the fire. “Did the elves tell you, Paksenarrion, of the origin of paladins?”

  “No, sir.” Hints, yes, but nothing clearer for her questions; she had finally quit asking.

  “Hmmmm. Once the gods themselves chose paladins, chose them from among those mortals who desired good and would risk all danger to gain it. The gifts which all expect paladins to have were given by the gods, some to one, and some to another, as they grew into their powers. The heroes whose cults have grown up over the worl
d—some of them now called saints—were chosen and aided the same way. Or so it is said. But after awhile, the cults themselves began to choose candidates, and prepare them, and—so it is said—began to intervene between the gods and the paladins. Although, once chosen, the paladins were supposed to take their direction from the saints or gods—” Paks thought of Amberion. Had Gird truly told him to take her to Kolobia? Or the Marshal-General?

  “I’m not attacking the Girdsmen,” the Kuakgan said slowly. “Though it must sound like it. The fellowship of Gird has done much for these kingdoms, and the fighters it trains have at least some care for the helpless. But what was once a grace bestowed freely by the gods—flowers wild in the field and woods—has become a custom controlled by the clerics: flowers planted in safe pots along a path. The flowers have their virtue, either place, but—” He stopped and looked at her.

  “It may be, Paksenarrion, that once in a while the gods decide to do things their way once more. If you are, as you declare, no longer depending on man or woman for your guidance of good and evil—and yet you have, as you’ve shown, some of the gifts found in paladins—” She wondered how he knew that, but if they’d told him about the daskdraudigs . . .

  Paks ducked her head. “I—don’t know. I don’t know how I would know.”

  “There’s that. A paladin unbound to some knightly order or cult is rare these days. And a Kuakgan is hardly one to know much of these things.” Paks found that hard to believe, at least of this Kuakgan. “When you were here last,” he went on, “you left everything you came with in the basin. Willingly, at that time.”

  “Yes.” Paks did not like to think of that mood, even now.

  “Hmmm. But you gave a gift you had no right to give.”

  “Sir?”

  “This.” He held out to her the Duke’s ring, the foxhead graved on the black stone. “This was not yours to give, Paksenarrion, and I cannot accept it.”

  Paks stared at it a moment, then at him. “But, sir—”

  “Take it. You are going to him; you can take it back.” He held it until she reached out, then dropped it in her hand. “Put it on.” Paks slipped it onto a finger. She had not expected to see that ring again. She turned it with her thumb until the seal was inside, invisible, the way she had worn it before.

  “You have been well enough to fight,” the Kuakgan went on. “You seem to be wholly well in body, and you are well enough in mind to sense evil and good—a gift that cannot work when the mind is clouded. Do you still desire that joy of fighting you had before, or can you see it as a danger—as a temptation to fight without cause?”

  “Sir, I have had enough experience to know what comes of fighting for the joy of it alone. It is not that. But I still wish I could feel the joy when it’s needed. Or perhaps I should not say needed, since I can do without it, but—I heard a woodworker, sir, say how much he liked the feel of his plane slipping along the grain of the wood, and the smell of the shavings. My father liked being out with his sheep—I can remember him standing on the moor, drawing in great breaths of that wind and smiling. Isn’t that natural, in a craftsman, to enjoy his work as well? And I wish for that, to enjoy it sometimes. To pick up a sword with pleasure in its balance, not always overcoming fear of it.”

  “Is the fear any less?”

  “I think so. Or else I am getting used to it.”

  “Yet you haven’t asked me, Paksenarrion, if I have any healing magic to restore this to you.”

  “No, sir. You have done much for me already, and—I thought—if you wished to do more you would say so.”

  “Yes. I don’t know. What I can do has been done.” Paks felt the certainty of this, and braced herself to carry her fear forever. “But,” he went on, “there may be more you can do. You have spent a summer with elves and part-elves and the powers of the forest. I think you have spent it well—not thinking only of fighting, but learning, as you could, of the natural world. I cannot promise success—but if you have the courage to try a desperate chance, it may return your joy in your craft.”

  “I will try,” said Paks at once.

  “I have not told you what it is.”

  She shook her head. “No matter. I will try.”

  “Very well.” He stood up and moved to the woodbox. “I have saved these from the spring; they’ll be dry by now.” He began to stack short lengths of wood by the fireside. “This is eart’oak—to look at, much like any red oak. The elves call it fireoak. And here are two lengths of blackwood—don’t worry, not long enough for a bow, even for a child. I wouldn’t burn bowwood. And—let me think. Yellowwood, shall it be, or rowan? What do you remember best, Paksenarrion, about your visit here this spring?”

  She tried to think; the bees that had come in to the honeycomb came to mind. “Bees,” she said. “You sang them away.”

  “From yellowwood honey. Very well.” He pushed most of the existing fire to one side of the wide hearth, and quickly piled the sticks he’d selected in its place. Then he lit them with a brand from the fire. Paks flinched: flames roared up from the tiny pile as if it had oil on it. They were bright, brighter than the yellow flames on the other wood. The room came alive in that dancing light. “It won’t last long,” said the Kuakgan, turning to her. “You must name your gods, to yourself, at least, and place your hands in that flame. The heartwood of fireoak, for courage, and blackwood for resilience and endurance, and yellowwood for steadfast loyalty to good. Quickly!”

  Paks could not move for an instant—the magical flames were too bright and hot. She could feel the sweat break out on her face, feel the clenching of her stomach, the roiling wave of fear about to sweep over her. She spread her hands in front of her and leaned to the fire.

  The flames leaped up joyously to engulf her. She would have jerked back, but it seemed too late—the fire was too big. If I’m going to burn, she thought, I might as well do it all. She had forgotten to ask what would happen—if the flames would really burn—if they would kill her—and it was too late. Gird, she called silently, Gird, protector of the helpless. And it seemed to her that a stocky powerful man held his hand between her and the flames. And her memory brought her another vision, and other names: The High Lord—and the first man stepped back, and trumpets blew a fanfare, and in the fire itself a cup of pure silver, mirroring the fire—Take it—said a voice, and she reached into the flames to find herself holding a cool cup full of icy liquid—Drink—said the voice, and she drank. Flames roared around her, hot and cold together—she could feel them running along her arms and legs. A wild wind shook the flames, drums thundered in her feet: she thought of horses, of Saben, of the Windsteed, father of many foals. She rode the flames, leaping into darkness, into nowhere, and then across endless fields of flowers, and the flowers at last wrapping the flames in coolness, in sweet scents and breaths of mint and cinnamon and spring water. Alyanya, she thought at the end. The Lady of Peace—strange patron for a warrior. And kind laughter followed, and the touch of healing from the Lady’s herbs. Then she thought of them all together, or tried to, and the flames rose again like petals of crystal, many-colored, closing her off from that vision as the Hall’s colored windows from the sky. Higher they rose, and higher, and she walked through them, wondering, until she saw in the distance an end.

  And recovered herself sitting on the cold hearth of the Kuakgan’s house, with every bit of wood consumed to ash. The Kuakgan sat beside her, as she could feel, in the darkness. She drew a long breath.

  “Paksenarrion?” He must have heard the breath, and been waiting for it. She had never heard him sound so tentative.

  “Yes.” It was hard to speak. It was hard to think. She was not at all sure what had happened, or how long it had been.

  He sighed, deeply. “I was beginning to worry. I feared you might be lost, when you did not return at once.”

  “I—don’t know where I was.”

  “I do not propose to suggest where you were. How are you?”

  Paks tried to feel herself ou
t. “Well—not burned up—”

  The Kuakgan laughed. “And not burned witless, either. That’s something, I suppose. Let me get a light—”

  Without thinking, Paks lifted her hand: light blossomed on her fingertip.

  “Mother of Trees!” The Kuakgan sounded amazed. “Is that what happened?”

  Paks herself stared at the light in confusion. “I don’t know what I did! I don’t know—what is it?”

  “It’s light—it’s a light spell. Some paladins can do that—haven’t you seen it?”

  When she thought of it, Paksenarrion remembered the paladins making light. “Yes, but then—”

  “Then what? Oh, I see. Well, as I half-suspected, you are a paladin outside the law, so to speak. Human law, that is.”

  “But it can’t—I mean I can’t—and anyway, how do I do it? Or stop it?” She was still staring at the light; she was afraid to look away or move her hand.

  “Just a moment.” The Kuakgan rose and took a candle from the mantle, and touched it to her hand. Nothing happened. “Ah.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true spell-light, not witchlight. Witchlight lights candles, but not spell-light.” She could hear him rasping with his flint and steel. The candle flared, a yellow glow pale beside her hand. “Now you don’t need it. Ask for darkness.”

  “Ask who?” Paks felt stupid.

  “Whom did you name? Whom were you with? You’re a paladin, remember, not a mage: you don’t command, you ask.”

  —Please—thought Paks, still in confusion. The light vanished. A bubble of laughter ran through her mind. “But do you mean it?” she asked the Kuakgan, turning to watch him as he lit more candles. “Do you mean I really am a paladin, after all that’s—” Her voice broke.

  “I am no expert on paladins,” he said again. “But something certainly happened. I know you aren’t a Kuakgan. We both know you aren’t a Marshal of Gird. You aren’t a wizard. Nor an elf. That leaves few explanations for your gifts and abilities. Paladin is the name that fits best.”

  “But I was—” She didn’t want to say it, but knew he would understand.